


A madness most discreet, a choking gall and a preserving sweet

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>just another ordinary day at 221b Baker Street</p>
            </blockquote>





	A madness most discreet, a choking gall and a preserving sweet

Beta: agent_bandit  
Disclaimer: all characters belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading  


  


At long last John’s eyes fall on the wonderful sight of the longed-for black expanse with the number 221b in bold brass letters that is his front door. He heaves a deep sigh of relief and puts the Tesco bags on the pavement, fumbling for his keys.

Christ, what a day.

It started with the alarm going off far too early and at the precise time it needed to, as it was Wednesday and so John was expected at the clinic. The evening before clinic days John tries to be in bed at half past twelve at the latest.

Half past twelve last night found him shivering in the rain in a dark alley next to Sherlock, waiting for their current criminal to make his appearance. When he did finally turn up Sherlock gave chase – why did he always insist upon the chasing? – and John followed – why did he always follow? – and to make the night even more trying Lestrade insisted on them staying at New Scotland Yard afterwards to give their statements. And why did both Sherlock and Greg always insist upon delivering the statements straight away? He would have been very glad to go and give his statement this evening, after the clinic, and it wouldn’t have made any difference as Greg was always behind with the paperwork anyway, as he kept telling them.

But most important of all, why didn’t he tell both the imperious consulting detective and the less imperious but trying-to-act-impressive Detective Inspector he wasn’t going to give in to their needling as it was a quarter to two by now and his alarm clock was set for half past six and he wished them both a very good night.

Because he just never did that, did he? And he should. He really, really should.

***

John felt as if he’d only just closed his eyes when the alarm sounded, blaring and painful to his unrested head. His mood only took a turn for the worse when he made his way into the kitchen, itching for his morning cuppa and finding that Mr. Self-proclaimed Genius, whom he had left quietly snoring in the warmth of their bed, had apparently used the last teabag in the flat yesterday and not bothered with such mundane details as shopping.

The tube had been a descent into hell. The second flu epidemic this winter had hit London two days ago and the carriage had been filled to the brim with a seething mass of sniffling, dribbling individuals, oozing a greenish-looking muck out of their eyes, noses and mouths. Some were hardly recognizable as human beings at all. Needless to say this was more than enough fair warning for the situation at the clinic.

He really didn’t want to think about that anymore. Especially as next Friday it was going to be the same round all over again. He didn’t see why people took the effort to haul themselves out of their beds, put clothes onto their fever-ridden bodies, ride the tube and end up in the clinic waiting area, only to be told they should return home and into their beds, making sure they keep up the fluid intake, and to really just ‘stick it out’. It was a flu epidemic, for Christ’s sake.

Well, of course he never said that last sentence. That wasn’t necessary, as it must have been written all over his face.

***

The Tesco hadn’t been so bad. Apparently a lot of people had taken his advice to heart and laid themselves up in bed. That had left him with plenty of space to wheel his trolley around and stock up. Well, it hadn’t been so bad until he ended up at the cash register and had had another row with the chip-and-pin machine. He’s sure he’s never going to see eye-to-eye with the bloody things, because that is exactly what is missing; an actual human eye. A human saying “hello” and, “here you are” and, “thank you” and, “goodbye”. He always has trouble scanning the vegetables. At least since his paycheck started arriving regularly every four weeks he doesn’t have to face the indignity of being told in a loud electronic voice to seek an alternative method of payment.

***

So John is really glad to be home at last. He has already decided he’s not going to cook, it’s going to be either take-away or a sandwich from Speedy’s, he doesn’t really care. For once he’s grateful Sherlock doesn’t care if he cooks or not.

He opens the door, heaving up the shopping and stepping into the hall. He shuts the door nudging it with his good shoulder before trekking up the seventeen steps to their flat. He realises it’s not a trek up to the Mount Everest base camp but with the lack of sleep, the day he has had and the weight of the bags it does feel like it. At long last he stumbles through the door into their flat …

… and asks himself whether he did indeed enter the right premises. Stretching out in front of his eyes he finds not the cosy, albeit not orderly – he’ll admit that – interior of 221b but what looks like a wasteland of debris and refuse. It’s an upheaval of overturned furniture showered with a layer of various papers, books, pens, post-it notes, paperclips, plates, cups and saucers, and every tea towel they own. John doesn’t realise he’s staring, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth gaping, until the soft thud of the shopping kicks him back into reality.

He closes his eyes. Maybe he’s hallucinating from lack of sleep and will find everything is back to normal once he opens them again. Alas, when he musters up the courage to open his eyes he finds he’s now able to take in even more details of the wreckage that has been wrought in the space that was his shared living room when he left this morning. The skull stands out in particular, lying upside down on Sherlock's overturned chair, a cigarette dangling jauntily from its left eye socket.

He groans, picks up the bags and retreats. Sherlock created this mess for some unfathomable reason, Sherlock may deal with it. John’s not going to lift a finger to assuage it. He has spent nearly his whole Sunday tidying and cleaning the flat – and Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to _pretend_ to help! – and that’s only three days ago. He doesn’t deserve this. It’s going to be Speedy’s just for himself, then he’ll make himself a pot of tea and take the whole lot up to his old bedroom. He’s sure there will be some novel lingering there, in amongst the dust on the bedside table, and he’ll make up the bed and spend the night there.

Because right now he is so bloody angry with Sherlock he doesn’t want to talk to him for fear he will swing his bloody fist into the bloody git’s face. It hadn’t been a good day so far, he doesn’t want it to end up in a bad day.

He retreats back into the hallway to enter the kitchen only to find an even worse sight than in the living room. He sighs and takes a step forward, slipping on something with a squishy sound. He looks down to discover the gooey substance that appears to be covering every surface in front of his eyes is also on the floor, he looks upwards … and the ceiling.

Okay, he has totally had it now. It was a bad day until now and by entering the kitchen it has sped with the speed of light into his personal Top Ten of Really Bad Days Ever.

And from almost start to finish due to the stupid, bloody, annoying, arrogant, self-indulgent, self-centred, self-proclaimed, so-called genius _dick_ that dares to call himself his lover!

Whom he now remembers he has glimpsed lying draped over the sofa, no doubt intent upon pushing the suffering heroine posture to new heights of perfection.

Furious he steps backwards out of his shoes into the hall. He doesn’t know what the substance covering the kitchen floor consists of – he doesn’t want to know – but he does know Mrs. Hudson will give them hell once she finds it irremovably stuck to her carpet.

He bursts into the living room to find Sherlock has indeed taken pride of place on the sofa. He’s lying on his left side, bare feet stuck on the armrest, blue robe pulled tight around his torso. John can’t see his face but he’s so angry that even the curls look arrogant and defiant to him.

“Look here Sherlock,” he starts.

Sherlock turns and looks up at him. His face a study in hurt and anguish, pain flooding out of his eyes and the posture of his lips, the quivering of his chin. John feels himself relent, something is seriously wrong here.

He drops to his knees next to the sofa, takes one of Sherlock’s hands in his left, feels his face with the right one and asks: “what is it Sherlock? Tell me. Don’t you feel well, are you ill?” John reaches a hand up to his forehead, feeling no rise in temperature, “What happened?”

“It was an experiment, John,” Sherlock exclaims, voice trembling. “I don’t know what happened. I got a text message and I had left my phone here on the sofa so I went over to check and it all exploded behind me. Everything had been going exactly as planned but then, then I got so angry, John. I got so angry that _I_ exploded… And I had been fighting the boredom the whole morning John. I really tried. I know you want me to.”

John sighs, his right hand stroking Sherlock’s face. It must be so hard to be a stupid, bloody, annoying, arrogant, self-indulgent, self-centred, self-proclaimed, so-called genius dick, _all the time_. John can’t even begin to imagine.

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells Sherlock, “well, it does, but it doesn’t. It’s fine, it’s all fine. You go and get dressed now and we’ll have dinner at Angelo’s. Then afterwards we can do some basic tidying and tomorrow we’ll attack the kitchen And you’re actually going to help me this time, Sherlock. That will be your punishment.”

Sherlock stares at him. “So you’re not angry then,” he asks in disbelief, eyes round and wide.

John laughs. “No, not anymore,” he chuckles, “I was before, but it’s not like it ever makes a difference to you, does it?”

Sherlock stares into space, frowning with concentration. “No…, not really,” he admits at last. “Still, I’m glad you’re not angry now.”

Now that definitely merits a kiss, doesn’t it? 


End file.
